


Like Sunshine

by Gemma_Inkyboots



Series: Flowers in the Church [1]
Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: (at least Prowl thinks it is), (certainly implied), (eventually) - Freeform, (everything implied is pretty much guaranteed to be overt later), Alien Sex, Egg Laying, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Robot Feels, Robot Sex, UST, Xeno, dual valves, fixit, happy endings, ovipositor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5835841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemma_Inkyboots/pseuds/Gemma_Inkyboots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prowl is too busy, too annoyed and too frustrated to enjoy anything about this heat cycle. It's poorly timed, inconvenient and - hey, what happened to the lights? Is this a prank, or - oh. Oh. Ohhh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CerysKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CerysKitty/gifts).



> It's been quite a long time since I've written overtly pervy fic, so please be gentle. XD The destruction of Praxus is mentioned in the past tense here and, trigger warning, the consequences are pretty clearly implied to have left at least one canon chara sterile.

Ratchet was a hypocrite.

Being ordered to take a set, unavoidable period of medical leave was far from what Prowl _needed_ to be doing with his time, and having their workaholic CMO ordering him to relax and enjoy it Primusdammit rankled. If there hadn’t been a war on...

But there was, and that meant Prowl had neither the luxury of time nor a specialist medic with the parts required to remove his interface system, or the ability to block his heat. Apparently dual-valve systems were rare enough that Ratchet had immediately ordered Prowl’s office locked against his spark signature and field before ordering him onto medical leave, for fear that Prowl would ignore his orders and fry something. Blocking heats for a mech with one valve was ordinary enough - only for so long and no longer, frames did have their limits after all - but a combination of a dual-valve system, old damage and the long hibernation on Earth had made Ratchet wary.

He hadn’t needed ordering. Prowl knew just how uncommon his system was - more so than ever before since the destruction of Praxus. He wouldn’t even have had to take up Ratchet’s insistent offers of spark-blockers - his cycles spent searching for survivors in the seething crater that Praxus had become had put paid to any such worries. Even if he’d had someone willing to help him through his heat, Prowl would never have to guard against carrying again.

Letting out an angry, frustrated burst of heat through his vents, Prowl kicked out at the spectre of his annoyances and tried to find a comfortable position on the berth. He was stuck in his quarters, with nothing to do but attempt to dispel the charge of a frame that didn’t know just how useless this heat was, and he had too much to do without having to try and _enjoy_ it. He _itched,_ his valves twitching at the sensors firing at random up and down both channels, as the openings to his gestational chamber toyed coyly with irising open. It was supremely uncomfortable when one was unable to get in the mood for such things, and Prowl’s attempts at overloading himself only led to more frustration. He could reach his foremost valve with a bit of contorting, if he lay on his back, but only to finger the rim and try to play with the sensor nubs before and behind it; trying to find some relief for his second valve had led to a wrenched doorwing and crimping something subdermal that ran from hip to shoulder. A second attempt in his cramped but _private_ washrack meant he could brace one pede against the wall and push to reach more of his array, but he’d barely managed to brush the engorged nubs around his second valve’s rim before he slipped and crashed to the floor in a tangle of sprains and cursing. 

Dragging himself back to the berth had led to this - squirming around on the solvent-damp berth padding, not caring what effect it was bound to have on the softer stuff, and kicking out at the memory of Ratchet’s pre-emptive scowl. This, _this_ was uncomfortable and aggravating enough to wish furiously for no array at all, or at least for more than just a fantasy of sleek plating and clever hands...

That helped a little, thinking of someone to take some of the...logistical difficulties out of his hands. Prowl rocked on the berth, his processor flipping through something more pleasant than discomfort and the long lists of things he _still had to do_ at last; black hands, yes, dexterous and ever so helpful, sliding between his legs to take care of his needy valves and aching sensor nubs - someone to kiss, what he wouldn’t give for someone to kiss him like they had nowhere else to be and nothing to rush off for...

Heat sighed through his vents, Prowl’s optics glazing slightly now that his processor was finally disengaging and letting his frame take charge. He still couldn’t _reach,_ but maybe...

Grabbing up the tarp he’d smuggled into his quarters as a guilty pleasure his reputation couldn’t afford, he balled it up between his hands and spread his thighs, kneeling on the berth, and if he could just - lean forwards, and- If he rested his weight on the shoulder that hadn’t been scraped in the washrack... The tight bundle of smooth, cool material gave him the extra few inches he needed and he moaned in desperate relief, clamping his thighs around the wadded-up tarp and rocking his hips, both hands pushing the material against what he could reach of his array and it wouldn’t take much, all he needed - all he needed was- black hands and a wicked smile-

Prowl fell forwards on his face as an overload finally came, dragged from his systems sluggish and reluctant and not _enough,_ his frame reacting to the pressure against his array and his valves rippling hopefully as charge grounded through the berth, but for all the satisfaction he felt he may as well not have bothered. He panted heat through every one of his vents, gathered himself, and only then gingerly drew the tarp back from between his thighs. Lubricant had soaked into the material, cooling quickly and thickening to a darker gel in the fibres - how was it possible to be so wet and still so unsatisfied? Charge was building again, faster this time and even more maddeningly prickly with urgency, and Prowl curled into a ball on the berth clutching his sticky tarp and despaired.

*

Recharge had been fitful. Prowl blearily roused up from an uncomfortable low-level doze, once more on his back after a desperate attempt to help himself overload by rubbing his doors over the berth. It hadn’t helped, and he’d fallen offline with the dissipating remains of his overload sparking frustration up and down his frame as his swollen valve lips throbbed and the calipers rippled, as though his own frame was trying to emphasise just how unfulfilled and empty he was.

Prowl shifted on the berth, a faint plaintive sound escaping him as his valves clenched one after the other on nothing but slick lubricant and aches, then froze.

Something was wrapped around his arms. Over his bumper and under it and around his back, muffling his abused doorwings, pinning his arms to his sides. He jerked sharply, pulling his arms away - and whatever fabric it was allowed it, his arms only loosely bound up in something soft, so soft, that gave and smoothed over his plating but wouldn’t let him wriggle away. He tried anyway, shifting and wriggling on the berth but with his arms wrapped however loosely at his sides, he was trapped on his back without the leverage to move. His calipers _fluttered,_ and Prowl fought against the material all the more in a fit of pique. 

After a long moment, an increasingly hazy moment where his struggles turned into something more needy, he slowly realised the material was dispersing some of the charge snapping at his circuitry, so it became more of a tingling warmth rather than an angry buzz that wouldn’t ground. His hips jerked; heat licked through his array and it felt _good,_ the sore, swollen rims of his valves spasming and making him gasp out loud. Even if this was a prank or some convoluted Decepticon trap he’d been caught in... 

It was too dim to see, his quarters in total darkness, and an unsteady snap of “Lights full!” did absolutely nothing but confirm that _someone_ had done _something._ His headlights were covered - thoroughly, oh so lovingly - with the stretchy layers of fabric, and snapping them on and off did nothing but make him shiver at the tiny rush of responsiveness around his bumper. His doorwings were bound up in the same - the same distracting soft-clingy- _more_ and he squirmed again, vents working harder now and beginning to lose the will to figure out if this was a prank or not. If it was- if it was it was doing more for the need driving him to misery than anything Prowl had tried thus far, and-

Someone chuckled softly and Prowl jerked, then moaned out loud as the fabric shushed over his doorwings and tightened over his bumper. There was the faint sense of displaced air and someone touched his face lightly, stroking over his cheek - someone was _petting_ him, a hand stroking over the stretchy-soft fabric binding his bumper and over his belly, and he moaned again in mounting desperation as his heat sent a gush of lubricants through his sore, needy, plumped-up valves. It _hurt,_ being stroked and caressed so gently when his valves throbbed with need and his own hard impatient attempts at relief - being touched, being stroked and petted like something precious, he couldn’t stand it. And that was _before_ the comforting hands moved away, trailing over his bumper and belly and down his thigh - _when_ had he pulled his thighs so far apart? When had his valves begun throbbing as though they took up his entire pelvic span? - and to his utter shock a cool slickness curled at the rim of his front valve as though _tasting_ him. _Someone’s glossa, it must be, someone’s-!_

“What are-” he managed, then words dissolved into a rising cry as the glossa retreated and ran firmly along the length of one swollen valve lip, curling around it until it reached his poor throbbing sensor node and _pressed._ Prowl wailed, any thoughts of the other officers walking by swept from his processor in a wave of ecstasy. The glossa circled his nub until he sobbed, _too much,_ then retreated again as a smile nuzzled against his array all the way down to the rearmost node. Prowl hiccupped, overwhelmed beyond coherence at the sudden relief, and his hips jumped towards the wonderful _beautiful_ glossa as it licked and teased more gently this time around. 

“Why,” he gasped, helm thunking back against the berth as his back arched - his doorwings rubbed against the silky fabric and he choked, caught between the two sensations until his mystery deliverer chuckled into his valve and oh _Primus_ the way it clenched down trying to capture the sound - then gentle lips wrapped around his node and _sucked,_ and any other questions Prowl might have had went the way of his restraint as he howled. It was too good, he couldn’t think, his processor slowly giving way as he finally, _finally_ got what he needed. He could move enough to roll his hips up into that wonderful mouth, all smooth and slick and warm, and he sobbed as an overload built inexorably up until he shuddered on the brink of devastation. Nothing he could manage on his own felt like this, and in the grip of his heat he might even admit that he didn’t care if this was a Decepticon trap if it felt so good. His valves were soaked, his thighs were slick with his own lubricants and the other mech’s smile, and he hiccupped and moaned and squirmed in his gentle restraints as they overloaded him again with a kiss.

When he’d calmed enough to pant through his vents the sweet, wonderful mouth moved to his front valve and was joined by fingers in his second valve and Prowl wailed himself to static, forgot to care about someone hearing, forgot entirely about Decepticons, his whole world narrowed down to the rub and rock of the fabric trapping him and his nodes being rolled between gentle fingers, slick with his own fluids, the fingertip that roamed lightly around his quivering second valve and stroked up and down his valve lips until he thought he would go mad with it. No heat had ever been like this, even when he’d had partners who cared enough to play instead of simply pushing their spikes and fingers into his valves - this felt like dying, like the world closing in tenderly around him and holding him safe, like he really could overheat from so much pleasure and not regret it. This felt like all the holos he’d dismissed as naively romantic, even as he’d sneaked them into his subspace to watch where no-one could see.

It went on and on, his valves so wet that surely he must run out of lubricant entirely, surely; he soaked his valve lips and soaked the berth and he didn’t _care_ when glossa and fingers both finally filled him, _finally,_ for overload after overload and then with something longer, thicker, that felt like a smooth, slick spike with none of the usual bumps and ridges and he could have cried at the lack of texture, thought he did cry from the dampness on his face, begging with static and nonsense rather than words for please, _please_ \- Then he overloaded again, and the spike slid smoothly out of his secondary valve in a slow, delicious spiral that touched every one of his nodes and their fingers slid out of his front valve through the mess of his lubricants, _leaving him empty_ and it wasn’t _enough_ and he cried without shame for them to come back.

Then something soft and giving nudged the entrance to his soaking second valve, nosing in effortlessly after so many overloads as he cried out in mindless gratitude - some kind of round, giving central core surrounded by slender, mobile threads that filled him like a plug, swept and rubbed and coiled through his slickness and were pushed in deep by something slender and more solid that slid in and in... Prowl thought for a moment there would be no end to it, that it would loop through his gestation chamber and out of his front valve and he’d be caught forever in an endless cycle of overload after overload. He almost came again when the slick-smooth body segmented into something unforgivingly _bigger_ without warning, crying out in startled joy as a hard, dimpled, gloriously solid sheath plugged him up and rubbed relentlessly over the oversensitised rim of his valve… 

His vocaliser failed. His joints failed. All he could do was feel as it pushed in and in and in with one long smooth stroke until someone else’s plating shocked against his aft and thighs and he overloaded instantly, an undulating static wail escaping as he shook and the fabric binding him rubbed gently over him. 

Prowl’s secondary valve clamped down on the thinner middle of the thing, rippled weakly around the rough section plugging him up tight, trying to draw more of it inside. His guest shifted and pushed in, ground the rougher sheath against the oversensitised ring of his valve, and Prowl moaned unprotestingly as the expert twist of his benefactor’s hips drew the length out just a little before pushing more deeply in. As the fronds moving gently inside him snuggled up to the peeping-open entrance of his gestational chamber some common sense, and alarm, returned to him, but was quickly lost as the frond-threads ruffled, tickled and coaxed at the tight, protective ring until it gave way, confusing every sensor inside him and overloading him _again,_ until he was so high from the rush of his heat and the delicious, agonising sensations inside him that Prowl couldn’t think about anything anymore. He rocked in his wrappings, back and forth on the berth as his doorwings rubbed in their fabric sheaths and every sensor a signal flare, until he couldn’t remember his own name or why he even needed to, couldn’t remember anything outside of his cocoon of pleasure and the wonderful thing inside him.

The fronds had coaxed his chamber’s opening wide, and Prowl’s hypersensitive frame quaked in anticipation of a rush of transfluid to finally fill him completely. But instead the wonderful thing inside him shivered as something round and thick began to move along inside of it, pushing his stretched and welcoming valve open wide as it passed in ripples from the thick sheath through the more elastic middle that bulged as its cargo moved along until, finally, the sensor-rubbing joy reached the fronds playing with him deep inside. 

The round centre pressing against the entrance to his chamber unfolded, the segments locking his chamber wide open as the fronds soothed the way, and Prowl wailed static as something fuel-warm and malleable squeezed into his chamber. It radiated warmth, heavy and nothing like the thin agitation of transfluid, the sliding push of it making his chamber entrance tingle strangely and his front valve clench around nothing in envy. Prowl’s helm lolled against the berth, a faint whine escaping, and comforting fingers stroked and fondled his front valve’s uppermost node as if to commiserate. 

_Don’t worry, babe, I’m gonna look after you._ The voice in his processor was an old fantasy, but his body was already hitching on the verge of overloading as another mass began to push up from the sheath plugging his rapidly-clenching secondary valve, then another, then another… Prowl bucked against the fabric caressing him, writhed on the beautiful rough plug and overloaded harder and longer than he ever had before. On and on, the squashy masses packed serenely into his chamber pushing out his belly as it contracted around them, prolonging an overload strong enough to make even his spark flare and tighten. 

Darkness finally claimed him as his frame tipped into stasis, the sinuous movement through his valve and into his chamber following him down.

*

Prowl woke from his stupor two full days after he last remembered checking his chronometer. That wasn’t so unusual after a heat, though it was timed to perfection with a whole half-shift remaining before his enforced leave ended, but his tanks read as comfortably warm and full and a strangely-sweet aftertaste lingered on his lips like a memento of a kiss. 

His valve lips tingled and his valves both ached in a way he couldn’t ignore or forget, even after he returned to duty - heading to his office for his first shift back, he nodded calmly to Jazz and Trailbreaker as they passed him in the hallway, and even Jazz’s fleeting smile in return was enough to have his hands shaking as he input his office’s door code. The craving, burning-sweet _need_ raced through his array on the slightest pretext, flooding his secondary valve in officers’ meetings as he hid behind his notes or making his nodes flutter as he dissected a mission plan in Optimus’ office.

The aftershocks of his heat caught him off-guard at odd moments often and insistently enough that he couldn’t simply wait until his shift was over and try for some relief in his own quarters. More than once he had to lock himself in his office for a fumbling, desperate overload that never quite satisfied the craving, the empty ache that no furtively-improvised toy could reach, and his recharge was disturbed by dreams that woke him panting and aching and, more than once, had him waking half off the berth already rubbing his soaking array against the edge of the softer padding.

But time passed, the dreams of something strange and wonderful receded, and Prowl gradually convinced himself that his heat had passed in a fever dream. Life went on, the war went on, but every now and then Prowl found an extra cube waiting on his desk after a long shift, a flower set in a tiny stasis field, an invitation to a quiet movie night for something without any real substance but with a plot that mostly involved kissing. 

The war went on. And on.

Until it didn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> So Ceryskitty wrote a Prowl ficbit on their tumblr that got me thinking, and somehow managed to spawn - well, this and the follow-up fic that I have no doubt will be following very closely on the heels of this one. This fic can be taken as set in the original G1 cartoon if you wish to read it that way, but the second will be set in IDW, because Prowl is one of my dearest boys and I can't stand seeing him so miserable. And, well, if weird alien sex and eggs helps that, who am I to say no! :D


End file.
